


What Not To Do When Your Drug Is Self-Denial

by guilty_pleasures_abound



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: 1970s, Accidental Voyeurism, Alcohol, Anal Sex, Cigarettes, Drinking, Drunkenness, Fist Fights, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hand Jobs, Hangover, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oral Sex, References to Drugs, Rough Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Sexual Tension, Smoking, The Flesh Curtains, Young Rick Sanchez (Rick and Morty), Young Stan Pines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-22 13:50:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21077834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guilty_pleasures_abound/pseuds/guilty_pleasures_abound
Summary: Stan knew how to lie; he had learned from the best, after all, his whole childhood spent listening to his mother fabricate untruths to the dupes that called for her “psychic advice.” He lied to the people he sold his shit to, he lied to police, he lied to the assholes that were stupid enough to lend him money.Lying to himself should have been easy, lord knew he had enough practice in the art of deception. (Practice didn’t always equal success, mind you, but he sure as hell practiced.)But when it came to the whirlwind known as Rick Sanchez, lying got a hell of a lot harder.





	What Not To Do When Your Drug Is Self-Denial

**Author's Note:**

> [nschimm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nschimm/pseuds/nschimm) has given me so much bolstering during the process of writing this fic. You're the best, my friend.

Stan knew how to lie; he had learned from the best, after all, his whole childhood spent listening to his mother fabricate untruths to the dupes that called for her “psychic advice.” He lied to the people he sold his shit to, he lied to police, he lied to the assholes that were stupid enough to lend him money.

Lying to himself should have been easy, lord knew he had enough practice in the art of deception. (Practice didn’t always equal success, mind you, but he sure as hell practiced.)

But when it came to the whirlwind known as Rick Sanchez, lying got a hell of a lot harder.

They met in some piss-ant town jail in the middle of nowhere. There wasn't even anything remarkable about the reasons they got busted, and it wasn’t even the first time Stan had landed in that predicament and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, so there really wasn’t any reason for that night to be any kind of special. Frankly, it didn’t have any right to be.

But by 4 am, Stan’s previously passed-out cell mate stirred, groaning and stumbling for the barely-functional toilet to heave his guts up, cursing between the disgusting sound of liquid spattering against the inside of the metal bowl.

Stan sympathized; he’d been there.

“Y’alright, pal?” he asked when the worst of it seemed to be over, the other man slumping and breathing heavily between pained groans.

“Peachy.” A dry heave served as punctuation, followed by a gag and fevered spitting. “Fuckin’ peachy.”

Silence for a little while, Stan trying to get back to sleep on the uncomfortable cot as the other man heaved and spit a few more times, clearly in misery.

_“Fuck,”_ he eventually grunted, and Stan peeked through one eye in the dim lighting of the cell to look at him where he was leaning against the wall beside the toilet, vomit still on his chin and his pallor pale and sweaty. He looked like shit.

Stan hadn’t given him much thought when he’d first been pushed unceremoniously into the same jail cell as the skinny man now sitting on the floor; the guy had been passed out on one of the room’s two cots at the time—just a rail-thin tangle of limbs that were far too long for the short mattress, his sky blue hair in disarray. Just some sloppy punk who’d probably gotten trashed and started throwing rocks at passing cop cars.

After a minute or so of panting to catch his breath, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, which he then wiped against his already dirty jeans before raising both hands to his head and poking around in his messy hair for moment, seemingly looking for something.

Stan finally opened both eyes to watch with morbid curiosity, eyebrows slightly furrowed until the punk pulled a couple cigarettes from his locks, smirking at Stan’s flabbergasted look. He was even well prepared enough that each cig had a match rubber-banded around it, which the man lit with a flourish by using the rough stone wall behind him. The little flame illuminated his face as he held it to the end of the cigarette, taking a long drag in as his eyes closed with relief. Stan watched enviously as he then held the smoke in for a moment, before breathing it out slowly through his nose.

“Fuck, that’s better,” he mumbled, taking another drag with his eyes still closed, long legs spralled unceremoniously on the floor in front of him.

“Clever,” Stan eventually remarked, his cellmate opening his eyes at the sound of Stan’s voice. “Don’t happen to have a lockpick stashed up there, do ya?”

The punk smiled wolfishly, carelessly flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette and onto the floor. “Fresh out.”

“Shame.”

He grinned a little wider, the tip of his cigarette glowing bright orange in the dim light of the room.

Stan felt an uncomfortable blush rise to his cheeks when the man’s eyes swept over him a moment later; to seize him up or appraise him Stan wasn’t sure, all he knew was that it made him feel vulnerable from his supine position. He sat up with a frown, swinging his legs around to rest on the floor as he glared back.

The other man seemed completely unphased by Stan’s look, the smoke curling around him as he continued to take long, satisfying drags on the cigarette until he burned through it, stubbing out the tiny remainder on the heel of his boot. He immediately lit another one, his gaze back to Stan as soon as the tip glowed red.

_“What?”_ Stan eventually growled, challenging the skinny man’s stare with a scowl, but he simply shrugged before blowing out a couple smoke rings with a satisfied smirk. To Stan’s surprise, he then used the glowing tip of the cigarette between his lips to light another one before leaning forward, offering it to Stan without a word.

The scowl dropped from Stan’s mouth, replaced with mild surprise, his gaze flicking from the offered cigarette to the other man’s face before he reached out to take it, mumbling a gruff “Thanks.”

“Uh-huh,” was all Stan got in return, his cellmate resuming his attempt at a stream of smoke rings.

The unexpected generosity made Stan give him a proper look this time; from his tousled, sky-blue hair to the white tank shirt that was barely a tank shirt—the front and sides so open they might as well not be there—to his denim vest, which was the only thing on his torso with enough fabric to give him a modicum of cover. Then Stan’s gaze drifted further down, to his dirty, tight black jeans and heavy combat boots, before sliding up again, making note of the thick, spiked leather bracelets on his wrists, the choker around his neck, and piercings in both ears.

“You ever poke yourself in the eye with one of those things?” Stan asked, indicating the man’s bracelets with his cigarette before bringing it to his lips and taking a drag, immediately relaxed by the familiar comfort.

“No,” he snorted with amusement, “but I damn near took someone else’s eye out once. Didn’t feel too bad about it though, they were trying to kill me, so.”

“That’s a fun experience, ain’t it?” Stan snickered, taking another drag.

“Can be.” He smiled a little wider as he flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette. “Depends on how good of a fight they give ya.”

Stan chuckled, raising one eyebrow in acknowledgement with a small nod of his head. He didn’t _entirely_ agree that fighting for your life was _“fun”_ per se, but the exhilaration from a good, honest fight? Well, there wouldn’t be boxing gloves in his trunk if that wasn’t true.

“Is that what you’re stuck in here for? Trying to take someone’s eye out with jewelry?”

He made a “ppffttt” sound with his mouth, waving his hand dismissively. “I wish. Got trashed and spray painted the stupid church downtown. That’ll show that uppity bitch trying to force her fucking Jesus flyers on everyone at my show.”

“Show?” Stan questioned.

“Yeah man, The Flesh Curtains.” He raised an eyebrow, then scanned his eyes over Stan again. “Eh. Not really your scene, I guess.”

“Don’t really have a scene.” Stan shrugged, drawing a long breath in through the cigarette before flicking off the excess, equally as uncaring of the ash falling to the floor.

The other man chortled, leaning his head back against the wall with a sigh, smoke pouring out of his nose. “Everyone’s gotta scene, my man. Sometimes you just gotta find it.”

Stan didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing, ruminating on the sentiment while he burned through the rest of the cigarette. He was about to ask if the guy had any more when there was suddenly the sound of a soft, third voice.

“Rick! You stupid squanch, are you in there?”

They both jerked their heads toward the sound, the question coming in through the barred window.

“About fucking time, what took you guys so long?”

Stan watched his cellmate get up, staggering with a curse and clutching his head before giving it a little shake as if to clear it before moving toward the high, barred window. He reached up to grip the ledge, pulling himself up so he could peer out.

“Well maybe next time you won’t stash your gun in your squanchy laundry!”

“Yeah yeah, just give it to me.”

Gun? Stan watched apprehensively as the other man reached through the bars, seemingly to retrieve his gun.

“Missed you, baby.” Rick cooed at it, letting himself back down to the floor with a smile.

Stan, meanwhile, balked; he had never seen a gun like this before. It had a flat barrel, with a small, glass chamber on top, and whatever was in it was glowing and crackling with an eerie green electricity.

He fiddled with a dial on the back for a moment, then aimed it at the wall and pulled the trigger.

Stan jumped, letting out a gasp as it fired a ball of green energy that burst into a large, glowing, swirling green disk.

“You coming?”

Stan’s gaze was pulled by from the wall to the other man, the question not processing in his startled brain for several long seconds. When it finally did, Stan’s eyes widened.

“What?”

“You coming along, or what? Can’t imagine you _want_ to spend the night in jail, do ya?”

He really didn’t, but he had no idea what getting out of jail and the glowing green vortex had in common.

“How—?”

“Just gotta step through.” He indicated with his empty hand toward the green circle. “But we don’t have all day, man. I’m going, and if you’re not right behind me it’s gonna close.”

With that, he turned and disappeared with a pop of light, and Stan didn’t even give it a second thought before jumping to his feet to follow.

He'd been following ever since. The crazy part was he couldn't quite pinpoint _why_; Rick had even taken him back to his car, left where Stan had parked it in front of the store he had been busted for shoplifting from. But then he gave Stan a flyer for his band’s next show a state over, grinning at him with a wink before disappearing through another portal, and Stan found himself driving.

To say The Flesh Curtains wasn’t his usual taste in music would be an understatement, but watching them perform was certainly entertaining. Stan drank a beer in the back of the seedy club they were playing in as the show carried on, the crowd small but throwing themselves whole-heartedly into the music blaring from every speaker.

He watched Rick just eat up the attention, long, slender fingers sliding effortlessly over the guitar strings as he grinned and hammed it up to the crowd, even going down to his knees at one point at the edge of the stage when a girl offered him her panties. Stan chortled at the suave smile Rick gave her, letting her hang them off the head of his guitar before blowing her a kiss, the girl shrieking with delight.

Rick wasn’t the only interesting thing on stage, though. His bandmates didn’t seem… human. In the moment Stan just chalked it up to gimmick, costumes and special effects prosthetics as a way to make their group distinctive, but he came to learn pretty quick after that that life in Rick’s orbit was full of the unexpected. It shouldn’t have surprised him, really. The guy could make portals, he was practically a walking sci-fi cliche, of course his bandmates were aliens. And Stan was surprisingly okay with that, as it turned out.

He was surprisingly okay with a lot of things Rick did. His mother would have said they were “cut from the same cloth,” though exactly what kind of cloth that was Stan had to wonder. All Stan knew is that if felt good, traveling with them; Birdperson and Squanchy just as good company as Rick, the four of them getting drunk or high in shitty motels between gigs and making spare cash any way they could.

Which brought them to Snakebite, a popular venue that Rick was dying to play, and seemed willing to do damn near anything to make it happen.

Stan could get why; it was a pretty nice place, but still had the “gritty rocker/punk” vibe going for it, which would yield an audience of exactly the kind of music fans The Flesh Curtains hoped to attract.

If, that is, Rick could convince the club owner to give them a shot at the main stage.

He was doing is best—the club owner being gracious enough to hear out Rick’s plea in one of the large, curtained-off booths on the second story, the entire upper level serving as a sort of balcony to the main club below it. As a result, the music came through loud and clear, all of them having to raise their voices considerably to be heard.

“Tito, tito!” Rick was right beside the club owner, knee pulled up onto the plush bench and a drink in his hand. “Come on, man, you have to have heard about our gigs! We’re exactly what you’re looking for!”

Tito chortled; he was a beefy guy, definitely at bit bigger than Stan, and dressed in much the same style as Rick. “Yeah, I heard. I heard there was a riot at your show in Salt Lake City.”

Rick waved his hand dismissively with a “pppfffttt” sound blown from his lips. “Hey, when religious nuts try to boycott a show, you know it’s a good one.”

Stan hid his smirk behind his beer; he had been at that show, and admittedly, watching a bunch of pasty church goers with “Rock music is the work of Satan!” signs get their asses kicked by pissed off punks had been more entertaining than he cared to admit.

Still, he could see why Tito was bringing it up; his club was a pretty sought out venue, and fights like that could result in property damage that he wouldn’t want to have to fix.

“I can assure you, we did not encourage that altercation,” Birdperson spoke up. “It was very disruptive to our set.”

“Encouraging or not, BP, it’s a concern,” Tito raised an eyebrow at him. “You have a reputation for rowdy shows.”

“So does Nail Me, but you had their show last month.”

“Nail Me is good for the bill if there’s damage. Are you?”

Stan watched Rick’s eyes narrow, knowing that he was insulted by the insinuation.

“Dunno, man,” he said after a beat, reaching down into his boot and pulling out a roll of cash, pulling the rubber band off it to fan it out. “Does this look like we’re good?”

Stan exchanged a look with Squanchy and Birdperson; that wad of cash was all they had, and mostly won at poker in seedy bars, not their last couple of shows. Rick was bluffing like hell, and risking their motel and food money on it.

It seemed that Tito suspected as much as well, raising an eyebrow at Rick before taking a swallow of his drink. “Give me 25% of your merch table profits and I’ll consider it.”

“25?! Tito, man, you’re killing me. Tell you what, how about we get as many drinks as this cash can give us while you reconsider… 10%?”

“Rick—” Squanchy began to interject, silenced a moment later by Rick’s glare.

“Oh Squanch,” he muttered to himself instead.

“Drinks it is, then,” Tito smirked. Fuck.

Well, if they were going to drink away all their money, Stan was going to stick to beer; at least that had some nutritional value, right? The other guys seemed to have the opposite approach, going for hard liquor; probably hoping if they were hungover enough tomorrow they would be too nauseous to miss the food they wouldn’t be able to afford.

Then there was Rick, and frankly Stan was amazed by the way the man could drink for someone so skinny. He downed it like water, the sheer amount of it required to get him shit-faced truly staggering. In this scenario, it seemed to be his advantage, as a couple of hours, an untold amount of drinks, and idle chit-chat to butter Tito up left only Rick, Tito, and Stan in a state of “not passed out.”

Stan's head leaned back against the booth and his body was pleasantly heavy, but the lower alcohol content in his beer left him behind Squanchy and Birdperson and closer to the realm of “just drunk” rather than “shit-faced.”

Admittedly, he had let himself zone out, watching the play of the multi-colored lights in the main club dance against the curtain. He was only distantly aware of the sound of Rick's voice across from him, barely audible over the music, mixed in conversation with Tito's. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, not really bothering to try, but what eventually _did_ draw his attention was movement in the corner of his eye; movement that turned out to be Rick, swinging one knee over Tito’s lap.

It was so unexpected that Stan couldn't do anything but stare, watching open-mouthed as Rick kissed him, his hips grinding in an obvious little swirl against the other man's crotch.

For a moment he felt certain that Rick was about to get the crap beat out of him, Tito's large hands grabbing at his sides through Rick's barely-existent shirt, but that fear was swiftly and mercilessly killed when Tito's hands slid down to his hips, pulling Rick a little harder against him with an answering grind up.

All at once, heat rushed to Stan's face.

He shouldn't be watching this. Rick must have assumed Stan was passed out too, surely he didn't know he had an audience. He _shouldn’t_ be _watching this._ Yet despite the way that thought kept circling through his head, he couldn’t pull his eyes away.

He couldn’t stop watching the way Rick’s thighs flexed, visible through the tight fabric of his jeans, tightening as he ground forward. He couldn’t stop watching the way Tito pawed at him, squeezing his sides, his hips, his ass. It was such a contrast, Rick’s thin, spindly body and Tito’s big, heavy hands. Then Rick slid off his lap, down to the floor between Tito's knees, long fingers hurriedly undoing his belt buckle.

Stan knew what was about to happen; he wasn’t stupid, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t been on the recieving end of blowjobs in his life. But it was still a visceral gut-punch of conflicting emotions to see Rick eagerly take Tito into his mouth, immediately bobbing his head rigorously as Tito fisted his fingers into Rick’s wild hair.

Judging by the way Tito’s head thunked back against the seat, biting his lip with his eyes closed, whatever Rick was doing with his mouth was damn good. And though Stan couldn’t hear anything over the loud music, he had a feeling the other man was moaning at the feeling of it. He definitely mouthed the words “Oh my god” as Rick’s hands traveled over his thighs and abdomen, pushing his head down deep onto the other man’s cock with no hesitation.

It wasn’t until Rick pulled off a few minutes later that Stan realized how hard he was, his cock twitching behind the zipper of his jeans and desperate for any kind of touch. _Fuck._ Fuck. He shouldn’t be watching this. He _shouldn’t_ be _watching this_ but now it was too late. He’d sat there too long, watched too much, if he got up to leave now they’d _know_ and Stan would never be able to look Rick in the eyes ever again.

He probably wouldn’t be able to look him in the eyes again as it was. But if Rick _knew_, if Rick had to witness him slink awkwardly away it would be so much worse.

Then his brain ceased to function, because Rick unbuckled his belt, pushing his pants down as he stood. Stan couldn’t see his face, but he somehow just _knew_ Rick was giving Tito a shit-eating grin as he pulled one foot up to rest on the seat between Tito’s spread legs, his combat boot nearly brushing the other man’s balls as he hurriedly undid the laces so he could get it off.

Then Stan had to concentrate really hard on holding onto the seat on either side of him, because Rick pulled his now un-booted foot out of the leg of his pants so he could get back into Tito’s lap, unhesitatingly guiding the other man’s dick between the cheeks of his ass.

If it was actually possible to swallow your own tongue, Stan would have right then, so shocked at the sight of Tito’s cock sinking into Rick’s hole he literally groaned out loud, saved from discovery by the other two only by the sheer volume of the music.

And _Rick_; Rick was fucking living it up, sliding all the way down with a circular little grind before beginning to ride him, his own hands feeling himself up, pinching his nipples, digging his fingers into his own abdomen, pulling at his own hair as Tito gripped his hips, pulling him in that much harder on every downward thrust.

It was rough and dirty and _hot_, and Stan couldn’t fucking look away. Especially when Rick leaned back, bracing his hands on Tito’s knees as Tito leaned forward, clearly close to his end and hungry for that completion, fingers digging hard into Rick’s hips as he sped up the pace of his thrusts to a fevered pitch.

When Rick’s head limply tilted back a moment later, Stan got a second dose of that gut-punching, shocked, conflicted lust he had felt when Rick went to his knees to suck Tito’s cock. Rick wasn’t just doing this because he wanted to play the stage at Snakebite; he was _enjoying_ this, the look of utter bliss on his face plain as day.

Then Rick opened his eyes, meeting Stan’s gaze, and Stan had never been more humiliated to come in his pants in his entire life. To make the nightmare even _worse_, Rick knew. Rick knew he had just busted a nut in his jeans without even touching himself, Stan could see it in the way his eyes widened, his mouth open and panting in surprise.

Stan bolted from the booth.

***

Outside of Snakebite, Stan was on his third cigarette, and the anxious, confused, scared tremble in his hands was finally starting to subdue.

As discreetly as he could, he had changed his underwear in the backseat of his car, and only the complete lack of money in his pockets kept him from straight-up throwing them away in a fit of shame. He opted instead to wedge them to the absolute bottom of his laundry bag, officially dubbed a problem for Future Stan, because Present Stan was still trying to wrap his head around what had just happened.

He couldn’t go back in there. What would he say? He hated the thought of not traveling with them anymore, but how could he, after this? He’d just watched his friend get fucked in the ass, and he had gotten off on it to boot. And Rick _knew_. Stan would never live this down as long as he lived, and honestly he was half expecting Rick to tell him to take a hike.

“Fuck,” he swore to himself, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes in frustration. He was too goddamn drunk for this, too goddamn freaked out, and too goddamn _straight_. He was straight, alright?

“Hey! I’ve been looking for you!”

Stan’s heart pounded in a panic at the sound of Rick’s voice, his head snapping up from his hands and every nerve in his body telling him to turn tail and run. He expected Rick to look pissed, or annoyed, or maybe like he was gearing up to punch Stan in the jaw. And it was true that he looked annoyed, but before Stan could even open his mouth (to say what, he had no idea; sorry? Please don’t punch me?) Rick was jabbing a thumb back over his shoulder with a scowl.

“You expect me to haul Birdperson and Squanchy’s passed out asses out of here by myself? Come on, man, lend me a hand with these two.”

Stan gaped at him for a moment, completely caught off guard, and Rick raised an eyebrow at him in response. “You doing a fish impersonation there, Pines? You gonna help me or what?”

Stan snapped his mouth shut, his cheeks turning red, but he nodded anyway, following Rick back into the club to help him with his passed-out bandmates.

And that was that. Rick didn’t bring it up, he didn’t call Stan out, he didn’t even act like it had happened at all. He just scooped Squanchy up under one arm and hooked Birdperson’s elbow around his shoulders with the other while Stan got on Birdperson’s opposite side, all four of them lumbering awkwardly through a portal Rick had created in the wall.

Somehow, Rick had managed to keep enough money for them to crash at the shittiest motel in the town, and over very hung-over, shitty coffee the next morning, gleefully informed them they were to play at Snakebite that Friday night.

He ignored the way Stan’s ears burned red when Rick boasted about “charming” Tito into it, puffing his chest out like he’d used some clever psychology to convince the club owner to let them play the stage instead of using his body.

A body that Stan could not stop thinking about.

The most ridiculous part was that it wasn’t even like Stan hadn’t seen him naked before. Rick had practically zero modesty, and the time spent on the road together had left little boundaries in that regard, Rick uncaringly leaving the bathroom after a shower without a towel to be seen on more than one occasion. By all means, Stan should be desensitized to it.

He tried to tell himself that. Tried to talk himself out of being weird about it by reminding himself of that fact. But it was _different_ and he knew it. This wasn't just Rick forgetting to bring fresh clothes with him into the bathroom to change into after his shower, or whipping his dick out to wizz into a bush when they were staggering down the street after a good night out at a bar. This was _sex_, sex that he didn't mean for Stan to see, but he had and now that forbidden knowledge was hanging over his head like an anvil, ready to drop on his skull and crush him like in some Saturday morning cartoon.

And he wasn't interested in men that way anyway! He was _straight,_ goddamnit, there was no logical reason he had been turned on by watching that, and blowing a load in his jeans had been some kind of weird, one-in-a-million fluke. Just some strange effect of the beer... yeah, definitely the beer.

Still, there was no way he could bring himself to go to Snakebite for their show. It was the first he hadn't attended since meeting Rick, and he knew the other man was annoyed at him for it, but he just couldn't. He couldn't risk bumping into Tito, couldn't stomach the thought of having to make small talk with a man who knew Stan had seen them fucking. He felt awkward enough as it was with Rick, he didn't need that crap with a stranger.

So instead he bought a six pack of beer from the local liquor store, bummed some weed from Squanchy, and resigned himself to watching _I Love Lucy_ reruns until he fell asleep. Which he did, until about four in the morning, when Birdperson carried a limp, passed-out Rick through the motel room door.

“Ah jeez,” Stan sighed, pulling his pillow over his head for a moment with resigned weariness.

“Stanley,” Birdperson’s monotone voice still made it through the pillow. “Would you assist me in ensuring Rick does not die from alcohol poisoning?”

Stan pulled the pillow from his head with a long sigh, getting up and turning on the light as Squanchy finally staggered through the door with a laugh; clearly he and Rick had hit the celebratory bottles the hardest.

“Stan!” he said gleefully, kicking the door shut behind him. “You missed one hell of a squanchy show!”

Stan didn’t reply, simply helping to guide Rick down off Birdperson’s shoulders and onto one of the motel room’s two beds. One of the “delights” of being on the verge of broke all the time; no one in their little group got to sleep solo. They rented one room with two queen beds, and did their best to respect the invisible line down the center of the mattress that designated each half.

Normally, Stan didn’t mind bunking with Rick that much; he didn’t toss and turn, he didn’t steal all the blankets like an asshole, didn’t move into Stan’s half of the bed. Since the little “incident” at Snakebite, though, Stan could confess that he had felt more awkward about it. The problem was he couldn’t exactly ask to switch to bunking with Squanchy or Birdperson without having to come up with a decent excuse, and so far he hadn’t been able to. So down onto the other side of Stan’s bed Rick went, smelling like he went swimming in liquor.

Stan sighed as he worked on removing Rick’s heavy boots, relieved when Birdperson voluntarily started working on getting Rick’s studded belt off, while Squanchy uselessly crashed on the other bed with a drunken giggle.

Somewhere between tossing Rick’s boots to the floor and Stan shuffling around the bed to Rick’s side to begin pulling the snaps on his spiked leather wristbands, his inebriated friend stirred, looking blearily up at him for a few moments.

It seemed to take his alcohol-soaked brain a minute to process what was happening, and who was doing it, but when he did, Stan was a little surprised by how quickly his demeanor shifted to agitated.

“Why—why are you still here?” he slurred with a scowl, both Stan and Birdperson pausing with surprise at the angry question.

“Why wouldn’t I be, Rick?” Stan mumbled, putting Rick’s wristbands on the bedside table before moving to his collar choker. Unsurprisingly, Rick attempted to bat his hands away, but wasn’t very successful in his uncoordinated state.

“‘Cause you—you—you’re a fuckin’... fuckin’ coward.” His scowl deepened, trying fruitlessly again to push Stan’s hands away from his neck when Stan fumbled slightly with the buckle.

Stan could feel heat creeping up his neck, hoping with every fiber of his being that Rick wouldn’t drunkenly talk about what Stan had witnessed in front of Squanchy and Birdperson, going so far as to debate whether covering Rick’s mouth with his hand to stop him talking would alarm the other two.

“You think—you think I’m a real piece of shit, don’t you?” Rick glared accusatorially, Stan finally succeeding in getting his choker off and setting it on the nightstand to join Rick’s wristbands. “Fuckin’ blue collar dipshit, lookin’ down your nose at me, huh? Gonna kick the shit out of me, Stan? Set me—set me straight?”

Stan’s rising embarrassment took a left turn to alarmed when tears suddenly welled in Rick’s eyes, his hands clumsily trying to push Stan away from him. “Fuck you, Stan! Fuck you!”

“Hey!” Stan suddenly found his voice, grabbing Rick’s wrists and glaring seriously at him, Rick struggling weakly against him as the tears slipped from his eyes, trailing back over his temples into his hair. “Rick, I’m not gonna hurt you, you son of a bitch. I’m not gonna hurt you!”

Rick just struggled harder, more angry tears leaking from his eyes and his bottom lip quivering despite his scowl. Suddenly hands were pulling him away from Rick, and one of Birdperson’s wings was shielding Rick and Stan from each other’s view. Stan allowed Birdperson to usher him into the bathroom, closing the door after quickly muttering, “Stay here, please.”

Stan stayed, closing the toilet lid so he could sit on it and grumpily folding his arms, all too happy to let Birdperson deal with Rick’s drunk aggression.

Through the door, he heard Rick make a sound that was a cross between a growl and a yell; a noise he immediately recognized as something Rick did when he was frustrated and angry. Usually, though, the frustration was aimed at someone else, not him. Rick’s sound was followed by the low timbre of Birdperson’s voice, murmuring something to Rick that Stan couldn’t make out.

A few minutes passed, silence eventually falling on the other side of the door, then several more before the bathroom door opened again and Birdperson stepped through, closing it behind him.

“He is asleep,” Birdperson announced, still keeping his voice low. “But I have made sure he is on his side, in case his body rejects the high amount of liquor he has ingested.”

Stan nodded, not sure what to say to that.

“Stanley,” Birdperson sighed, leaning back against the door in the small space. “I do not know what has transpired between you and Rick, but whatever it is has upset him greatly. As did your absence from our show tonight.”

Stan looked at the dull, stained tile floor in front of him, clenching his jaw.

“The two of you must speak to each about the source of your disconnect.”

“Easier said than done, pal,” Stan mumbled, leaning forward to plant his elbows on his knees, his hands coming up to scrub over his face.

“Yes,” Birdperson begrudgingly agreed. “With Rick, it is always easier said than done.”

A few beats of silence, then Stan felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Would it be best if I sleep beside Rick tonight?”

Stan looked up, nodding in relief at Birdperson’s offer. “Yeah, that… that would help. Thanks.”

Birdperson nodded in answer, letting go of Stan’s shoulder and disappearing through the bathroom door and back into the main room.

Stan took a few more minutes, taking a leak before washing his hands and face and brushing his teeth for good measure. By the time he opened the door back to the main room, the lamp was off, and he could hear snores coming from both beds that he knew were Squanchy and Rick. In the dim light still coming from the bathroom behind him, he could see Rick laying on his side, one arm curled up over his head and a trash can resting on the floor beside the bed. Stan didn’t know what to do with the weird feeling that squirmed in his gut at the sight of Birdperson’s wing draped over Rick’s shoulder, seemingly there to make sure Rick didn’t roll over onto his back during what was left of the night.

With a shake of his head Stan turned off the bathroom light, crashing next to Squanchy for at least a few more hours of rest.

***

Needless to say, they didn’t talk about it. Sometimes that worked, with certain problems; you didn’t talk about it, you just carried on as normal and whatever it is you were pissed about just kind of faded away until you weren’t pissed anymore. The problem was it wasn’t fading away. It was just kind of there, crackling in the background like a livewire Stan couldn’t figure out how to cut the power to.

He made a point of asking where Rick wanted to go next over their late dinner at a diner the following day; the first meal Rick and Squanchy had had a stomach for since they had woken up to their massive hangovers. The question made Rick look up from his night breakfast—a plate of cream chipped beef on toast—to give Stan a scrutinizing glare. Stan glared right back and threw in a raised eyebrow for good measure.

“You actually gonna show up for the next one?” Rick challenged, pushing a glob of creamy sauce and bread around on his plate.

Stan’s eyes narrowed humorlessly, rigorously stabbing a piece his own meatloaf dinner. “Wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t planning on going.”

Rick gave him another long glare, then scooped the sauce-heavy bread up onto his fork and into his mouth with a skeptical grunt, looking out the window beside him.

“Couple clubs upstate that might like us. I’m lookin’ into it,” he said around the mouthful.

“Great.”

“Yep. Mm-hm.”

Awkward silence, and in his periphery he could see Birdperson and Squanchy exchange a look, but no one at the table dared to push the issue.

And that was the problem, really. Neither one of them actually wanted to talk about the issue but much to Stan’s frustration, they couldn’t seem to fucking move past it, either. The tension just kept tightening between them, creating stupid spats and petty arguments they never would have had before. It was driving Stan to his wits end, nearly pushing him to hop in his car and leave The Flesh Curtains behind; only his grudging stubbornness and weird sense of loyalty to the guys who had otherwise been good to him for months kept him from acting on the impulse. And—if he was actually honest with himself—the fact that this strange little caravan they'd become was the closest thing to family he'd had in years. He cared about them.

The worst part was how caught between Squanchy and Birdperson clearly felt. It wasn’t their fault, it wasn’t anything to do with them, but they still had to deal with Rick’s sour moods and Stan’s sulky anger. Something had to give, or they were all going to strangle each other.

Apparently that “give” came during a sound check in a bar in Boston.

The worst part was that Stan _knew_ Rick was baiting him. He was trying to get a rise out of him, trying to start a fight, and Stan's own temper was all too happy to meet him.

Honestly, he knew the final straw was a stupid one. He knew Rick couldn't possibly know how much his phrasing dug at Stan, or why; he was just trying to be petty, not open up old wounds. It still didn't stop Stan from completely losing his cool, but in retrospect, Stan could admit that Rick hadn't been trying to dig that deep.

"Make yourself useful, why don't ya?" Rick huffed at him, a sneer on his mouth as he tried to tune his guitar, but the amp's unhelpful crackling completely ruining the sound. "Go check the connection on this fucking thing instead of standing around with your thumb up your ass."

Stan, who had actually been helping Birdperson untangle a microphone wire, felt his blood boil.

_Do something useful._ He _hated_ that phrase, and every variation of it; he hated every time his father said it, he hated every time a teacher said it. He wasn't stupid, he knew what they really meant; _Why can't you do something worthwhile like your brother? Why can't you be more like him?_ Stan_ford_ was productive, useful, helpful. Stan_ley_ was a waste of space.

Rick had no way to know that, but with how far he had already pushed Stan to his limits, it was enough to make him snap.

"What the _fuck_ is your problem?" The cord Stan had been helping to untangle made a snap sound as it hit the floor, the noise completely drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears. "You capable of not being a goddamn peice of shit for more than three fucking seconds of your life?"

"Dunno, Stan, you capable of not riding our tailwind to get by without actually doing anything? You capable of a single intelligent thought instead of an endless stream of moronic shit you wanna sell to dupes so you can make enough money for daddy to love you?"

"You capable of not being whimpering faggot?"

The horrible words were barely out of his mouth before Rick was lunging for him, his feral, enraged yell echoing in the room and murder in his eyes.

Either fortunately or unfortunately, Stan wasn't sure which, Birdperson and Squanchy were immediately prepared to come between them, Birdperson grabbing Stan and pinning his arms to his sides as he spun him away from Rick.

"Get off me, get off me!" Rick growled at Squanchy, who had his arms around Rick's knees, digging his claws in to hold on, keeping Rick from chasing after him.

"Enough!" Birdperson could make his voice shockingly loud, squeezing his arms tight around Stan's wriggling form. "Both of you! Enough! Rick, take a walk!"

"Are you _kidding me?_ You're on his side?!"

"I am on no one's side, Rick, I just want you to stop trying to insult and injure each other!"

Stan stopped struggling against Birdperson with a frustrated growl, still steaming with anger but realizing the futility of fighting against Birdperson's ridiculously strong hold.

"Ow! Squanchy, fuckin'—fine! _Fine_ you motherfuckers, I won't try to fucking kill him, now let me go!"

Squanchy and Birdperson exchanged a look. Seemingly, they decided it was safe to allow Rick free, so Birdperson nodded to his companion in affirmative.

Tentatively, Squanchy withdrew his claws and released Rick's legs, but remained close, clearly ready to grab him again if Rick lied and went after Stan. Thankfully he didn't, simply pulling his guitar strap over his head and leaving the instrument on the stage as he stormed off, shoving his shoulder against a side door that led outside and disappearing through it with a stream of cursing.

_"Stanley."_ It wasn't hard to tell that Birdperson was upset and disappointed in him, and Stan looked at the floor with shame as his friend released him.

"I know, alright? I _know_." Stan pinched the bridge of his nose, then rubbed his eyes, angry at himself. Angry that he had let Rick get to him, angry that he had taken such a low blow in retaliation. Stan might be a jerk, but he wasn't _that_ much of a jerk. Except, apparently, when Rick had worked his every last nerve, then be became an asshole who hurled homophobic slurs at a man he considered one of his few true friends. _"Fuck,_ fucking fuck, I can't believe I said that. I don't say shit like that, what the hell is wrong with me?"

"We get it," Squanchy's paw patted his lower back sympathetically. "Rick can be great, but when he's not..."

"You need to apologize," Birdperson said sternly, folding his arms and looking at Stan intently. "And the two of you must work out whatever it is that has created this tension."

_"How?"_ Stan asked with exasperation, waving one hand toward the door Rick had left through. "You've seen how he's been, how am I supposed to talk to him when he's acting like a lunatic?"

"Have you _tried?”_

"Of course I've tried, what are you talking about?! You've been here, you've seen him—"

"No," Birdperson interrupted. "Have you tried talking to him about the source of the anger between you? The origin of this disdain for one another?"

Stan guiltily shoved his hands in his pockets, scowling at the floor in answer.

"You must," Birdperson continued. "Or I do not foresee our group travels surviving much longer."

That made ice drop into Stan's stomach. He'd been trying not to think about that possibility, that he'd wake up one day to find them gone, that he'd be left behind because of him and Rick's shit. But it could, and it probably would, if they couldn't move past this. Stan was the interloper, after all; he wasn't part of the band, he was just some guy they had liked well enough to pal around with, they could easily go on without him just as they had before Rick had pulled him along through his escape portal from the town jail.

Stan sighed, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets and tensing his shoulders with a frustrated growl. "If you hear a ruckus, come keep us from killing each other, alright?"

Birdperson nodded, and Squanchy patted him on the back again before Stan determinedly followed Rick out the side door.

He found him wedged between two dumpsters, sitting on his heels with his back leaning against the rough brick behind him. Stan nearly walked past him in the dim light on this side of the building, the only clue that he was even there the furious cloud of smoke rising up from the slim opening as Rick inhaled a cigarette with barely repressed rage.

“Hey,” Stan said lamely, standing at the edge of the opening with his hands still in his pockets. Rick didn’t reply, the end of his cigarette glowing as he took another inhale, so Stan cleared his throat awkwardly before speaking again. “I’m sorry. For what I said. That was shitty.”

“What thing, Pines?” Rick growled, flicking ash carelessly off the end of his cigarette. “You’ve said a lot of shit recently. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Stan _wanted_ to call him a son of a bitch; he knew exactly what “thing” Stan was apologizing for, he just wanted to be an asshole and make Stan repeat it. With very great restraint and effort, he fought down the temptation, and instead forced the words past his clenched jaw.

“I am sorry for calling you a faggot. I’m _sorry_. That was shitty and I didn’t mean it.”

Rick gave a coarse laugh, finally pushing up off his heels to a standing position, the butt between his lips glowing again as he took a last drag from the small remainder before flicking it away and stepping out from between the dumpsters.

“No you’re not,” Rick had the gall to say. “You’ve been wanting to say that for a while, haven’t you? Blaming it on the heat of the moment is a real nice excuse, huh?”

Birdperson’s warning of their collapsing group harmony was the only thing that prevented Stan from immediately hitting him. “What the fuck are you talking about? I’ve never wanted to say that to you. I hate that I said it at all, you asshole, and I’m trying to apologize for it.”

“Oh please.” Rick took an aggressive step forward, his scowl harsh and mean. “Don’t pretend you haven’t been looking down your nose at me since Snakebite. You’re just sticking around because you know you have a better chance of getting a hot meal and a roof over your head with us around.”

_“What?!”_ Stan squawked. _“That’s_ what you think?!”

“Don’t play dumb!” Rick barked, stepping forward again, putting himself chest to chest with Stan and jabbing a finger into his shoulder with uncomfortable force. “It doesn’t take a genius to see how freaked out it made you to see me with Tito, and guess what, I _am_ a genius! Was your mind fucking blown, Stan? Was your little heteronormative bubble popped into disgusted little peices, seeing your buddy get fucked in the ass and fucking _love it?”_

Stan’s face was burning, a nauseating mix of humiliation and anger churning in his gut at Rick’s wildly wrong accusation. Fucking _fuck,_ how did Rick not know? Stan was sure he knew, was sure that Rick was the one disgusted by Stan’s voyeurism, disgusted that Stan hadn’t excused himself the moment he realized what was going on, instead of staying to fucking watch and get his rocks off from it. 

“I want you gone.” Rick’s growled words felt like a knife between Stan’s ribs, stealing his breath with an agonizing blow. “I mean it. I want your shit out of the motel by the time we get back from the show tonight. And if you so much as _think_ about stealing any of our shit I will hunt you the fuck down and slit your goddamn throat. If you can’t get over the fact that I ain’t some straight, fucking ‘man’s man’ or whatever the shit, you ain’t rollin’ with us. Fuck off.”

Stan’s throat locked up, his limbs paralyzed at the realization that Rick was completely and utterly serious. He really didn’t know. He really thought Stan was freaked out by the fact that Rick was into dudes; he had no idea that the source of Stan’s weirdness around him was the complete opposite—the realization that _Stan might be too,_ and even more than that, he had become aware of that part of himself through watching Rick get intimate with someone without his permission.

With another scowl and one of his frustrated growls, Rick pulled away, clearly intent on heading back inside and expecting Stan to get lost. It thankfully unfroze Stan’s limbs, making him lunge after Rick in a panic. “Wait!”

The moment Stan’s hand landed on Rick’s arm, the taller man wheeled around and punched him.

For someone so goddamn skinny, the sheer force with which he could throw a punch was staggering, and it almost knocked Stan on his ass. Only the reflexive tightening of his hand around Rick’s arm kept him upright, and instincts born from his years of boxing putting him on the offense before his conscious brain could even process the idea of doing so.

His bare knuckles connecting with Rick’s mouth hurt like hell, and there was no doubt Rick experienced just as much pain from the contact, reeling back with a cry and his lip definitely splitting open. Dammit, this was _not_ how Stan wanted this conversation to go.

Before Rick could regain his composure to take another swing, Stan grabbed him with both hands, driving him back against the wall and pinning him there, immobilizing him as best he could without actually taking Rick to the ground. Of course Rick thrashed, doing his damnedest to punch him again, but Stan just threw his heavier weight against him with a snarl, his cheek throbbing where Rick had hit him.

“Will you stop it! You crazy, goddamn, son of a bitch, you’ve got it all wrong!” Stan barked at him, nearly losing his grip on Rick’s arms, but by some miracle recovering enough to prevent the other man from escaping him entirely. “Rick, fucking listen to me!”

“Oh I’m wrong, am I?” Rick sneered, blood dripping from his lip down his chin. “I’m wrong, Stan?”

“Yeah, you’re goddamn wrong!”

“Yeah?! How’s that?!”

Stan could have used his words. He’d been thrown that condescending instruction too, whenever he got in trouble for fighting, _Use your words when you get angry at someone, Stanley! You can’t just go around punching people!_ Except he wasn’t always good with words, not like Ford was, not like his mom was. He didn’t talk, he _acted_; his nervous system running on the impulse to _do_ rather than _say_, for better or for worse.

So when the words wouldn’t come, when opening and closing his mouth uselessly for a moment just earned him another one of Rick’s disgusted sneers, the impulse to _do_ took over instead.

_Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit._ That was the only thought circling through his head as compulsion to act drove him forward, releasing Rick’s arms to grab his head instead and pull him down into a painfully hard kiss, his eyes screwed tightly shut.

It wasn’t a nice kiss, it was barely a kiss, really, more just a mash of their faces together, but it made Rick freeze, and Stan could practically hear his wild, brilliant brain whirling and skidding over this abrupt change to the situation. Stan was too afraid to let go, too afraid he had Royally Fucked Up to dare end the kiss unless Rick did, his whole body trembling with nervous fear.

Really, he was expecting another punch, especially now that Rick’s arms were free, but Rick shocked the hell out of him a moment later when he suddenly had his hands all over Stan and was slotting his mouth more comfortably into the kiss with a rough moan.

“Jesus _Christ_, you fuckin’—you goddamn closeted homo, what the _fuck_,” Rick growled the words against his lips, his boney fingers digging into Stan’s sides with sudden, bruising force, making Stan gasp. “I’ve been fucking wanting to kiss you since we goddamn met, god_dammit_ Pines.”

Stan’s head was spinning, his heart racing so fast it hurt. Was _that_ the reason he’d invited Stan along that night? He barely had time to ponder that question when Rick was shoving his tongue into Stan’s mouth, completely shutting down all higher brain function.

He tasted like blood and cigarette smoke, sharp and unpleasant, but the way he curled his tongue behind Stan’s teeth was anything but unpleasant in contrast. It was so _not_ unpleasant, as a matter of fact, that Stan's knees went a little weak despite himself, his whole body swaying forward slightly against Rick as a result, pushing him harder against the brick wall behind him.

“God yeah,” Rick moaned, catching Stan’s bottom lip between his teeth in a way that practically made Stan swoon. “Ngh—yeah, fuck.”

Then Rick’s hands were grabbing his ass, pulling Stan's body harder into him, and Stan had never had his cock fill as rapidly as it did in that moment. It was like flipping a switch, the simple sense of eagerness from the overly enthusiastic kiss taking a sharp turn into _urgency._

"Ohmygod," Stan slurred against Rick's mouth in a deep groan, completely unable to stop himself from hitching his hips forward, grinding himself against Rick's thin thigh as the taller man squeezed his ass even tighter. "Oh my god..."

Rick's belt buckle was hard against his belly, uncomfortably so, but the developing bulge Stan could feel in the front of Rick's jeans was an entirely different story. Any sense of composure they might have had left dissolved; shamelessly rutting against each other in the dim light behind the bar.

Then Rick started _fucking talking,_ and Stan was convinced his brain was going to explode in his skull.

"Fuck this is so hot, _you're_ so hot, fuck, I can't even believe we waited so long to do this,” Rick breathed the words against Stan’s throat, curling down to get his head under Stan’s chin, the good six inches Rick had on him rather inconvieniant just then. “You stupid motherfucker.”

Stan had no idea how Rick managed to be so complimentary and insulting all in one breath, or why the babble of words against Stan’s neck felt like a hit to the solar plexus, but it did, his fingers tightening against Rick’s head despite himself.

“Shit yeah, you gonna pull my hair when I blow you? Huh?”

Rick couldn’t actually expect him to have a coherent answer to that question, could he? He sure as hell didn’t wait for one before wedging one hand between them with a groan, wet mouth sucking on the tendon in the side of Stan’s neck as he rubbed the thick outline of Stan’s cock through his jeans.

“Shiiiiiit yeah,” Rick repeated, the words nearly drowned out by the shocked groan ripped from Stan’s throat by the contact, his knees almost buckling as his cock throbbed furiously against the firm pressure of Rick’s palm. “Goddamn, I knew you’d be thick, I fucking _knew it._ That half-assed morning wood, are you kidding me? Knew you could do better than that shit.”

If Stan had any functioning brain cells left, he might have been able to give more thought to the fact that Rick had just confessed to sizing up Stan’s morning erections; but a moment later Rick was pushing him back enough to give himself room to sink to his knees, and Stan was almost sure his heart was going to frantically beat itself out of his chest. All he could do was brace the side of one forearm against the wall as Rick made quick work of his belt buckle and fastenings, still trying to wrap his brain around the idea that this was really happening.

Then Rick tugged down the waistband of his pants and underwear with little finesse, Stan grunting in relief when he was finally freed from the confines of the fabric and into Rick’s waiting hand.

_“Yes,_ look at this shit, fuck.”

Stan had never had his cock praised so much in such a short span of time, making his already hot face feel hotter as Rick pumped his hand three times over Stan’s length before leaning in to take him into his mouth.

He didn’t want to admit to how long it had been since he’d had lips around his dick, but it was certainly long enough that Stan had to concentrate pretty damn hard on controlling himself when all his body wanted to do was thrust. It was a compulsion that Rick did not make easier to fight when he started moaning, the sound vibrating in his throat and his head pushing down deep with short, frantic bobs that left Stan trembling.

"Fuck my mouth, you pussy, come on." Rick pulled off only long enough to give the filthy command, his voice thick and husky and leaving no room for debate; not that Stan could come up with a single reason not to obey.

"Holy shit," was all he could find his voice to squeak, the renewed vigor of Rick's hot, sucking mouth like a hook in his insides, pulling gasps and groans from his throat that he might have been embarrassed about if he hadn't been so turned on. He still had a hand on Rick's head—it hadn't moved since he'd grabbed the taller man to pull him down into that first crushing kiss—only now his fingers found their way into Rick's blue strands to hold tight. Rick made a sound that very distantly resembled "oh yeah," but it was hard to tell with his mouth otherwise occupied. All Stan knew for sure was that tightening his fingers in the other man's hair made him move faster, his throat fluttering and spasming with every bump of Stan's dick into the back of his mouth.

It was almost surreal, and he half believed that at any moment he was going to wake up sweating and disoriented, this whole thing nothing but a crazy fever dream. But the feeling of Rick's hands tightening on his hips—encouraging Stan forward into his mouth—sure as hell felt real; the wet, sloppy sounds and Rick’s dreamy moaning all Stan could hear besides his own heavy breathing. If it was all a dream, it was a damn vivid one, and he had no interest in waking up.

"Shit shit shit," Stan husked out; he was already so close, it was like sparks running through his skin, his pelvis tight. He just needed—

_Fuck_, he just needed Rick to _not stop_ why was he—?

“Fuck yeah, come on me, come on,” Rick growled, leaning back and looking up at him, his hand replacing his mouth around Stan’s cock and stroking rapidly, keeping the momentum that had brought Stan so near to the edge. “Gimme a pearl necklace, baby.”

He would never get over the fact that Rick just _said shit like that_; it was too fucking much, too goddamn hot and utterly filthy and Stan was powerless to stop from doing exactly what Rick wanted. He had to be hurting him, the force with which he was gripping Rick’s hair undoubtedly painful, but Rick didn’t fight it; his eyes half closed as he angled Stan’s cock toward his chest, every strong pulse of Stan’s orgasm landing messily along his clavicles.

Shit, he’d completely forgotten about Rick’s split lip, his mouth a bloody mess, but Rick didn’t seem to care; his glazed, turned-on expression strong evidence that there was no place he’d rather be in the entire world at the moment than on his knees with Stan’s spunk dripping down his chest.

“Oh my god,” Stan wheezed, shaking and sweating, aftershocks of pleasure jolting through his pelvis as Rick’s hand slowed, but didn’t stop, wringing every ounce of Stan’s climax from him as he could. “Oh my god, oh my _god_.”

By the time Rick let him go, Stan was trembling, but that was nothing compared to the absolute gut-punch of Rick’s smirk, holding Stan’s gaze as he brought his clean hand to his chest, smearing Stan’s spunk over his skin.

It blind-sided him; it was the fucking filthiest thing Stan had ever seen and his brain didn’t even know how to process it beside staring open-mouthed and utterly breathless at the hedonistic display. Rick knew it, too, there was no doubt in the universe he knew exactly how hard it would hit Stan, how the way he paused to rub the tacky mess against his nipples would make Stan wish it was biologically possible for him to come again.

Instead, all he could do was gape, Rick rubbing it all over his chest and belly through his barely-existent tank shirt until it was gone, spread so thin and drying on his skin that no one would be the wiser.

Then he was pushing Stan back enough to return to his feet, looking at him almost challengingly as he wrapped his arms around Stan’s neck and pulled them flush again with a hard kiss to the mouth. He still tasted like blood, and Stan had a sneaking suspicion that Rick’s lip was still bleeding, even if it wasn’t gushing the way it was when Stan first hit him. The idea that the cut was bad enough that he might need stitches on the inside of his mouth crossed Stan’s mind, but the concern that followed was waylaid a moment later when Rick reached down to take one of Stan’s hands in his own, bringing it roughly to his crotch with an impatient groan.

“Come on, man, don’t tell me you’re one of those assholes that would leave me hanging,” he growled, thrusting his hips forward into Stan’s hand. It jarred Stan out of his stupor, letting out a shuddery breath as he tentatively squeezed his fingers around the stiff bulge in the front of Rick’s jeans.

He’d never done this before; never touched a dick that wasn’t his own, never even gave it much thought, really, prior to Rick. For a few seconds it made him flounder, unsure what to do, unsure what Rick might like. But one thing could be said for Rick, at least; he was proactive about what he wanted. He undid his belt with a gruff growl, nudging Stan’s hand out of the way so he could get to the button and zip, tugging them open before grabbing Stan’s hand once more and guiding it inside the opening.

Of course the son of a bitch wasn’t wearing underwear; Stan should have known, should have guessed, but somehow it still made him moan in surprise, fingers curling unimpeded around Rick’s cock and giving it a squeeze.

“Shit yeah,” Rick encouraged, pushing another kiss against Stan’s lips, hooking his arm back around Stan's neck while the other gripped his wrist. "God, I've been goddamn _dreaming_ about your hands. Fuckin'... fuckin' bear paws or some shit."

It made warmth spread through Stan's chest despite himself. Rick didn't give compliments; he just didn't. He insulted easy as breathing, even if it was in jest or as a tease, but praise just wasn't in his repertoire.

Unless, apparently, you got him turned on.

"Alright," Stan whispered breathlessly, confidence bolstered by Rick’s words and the flush on his sharp cheekbones. "Alright, I got ya."

He guided Rick more fully out of his pants, giving himself more room to work, his hand making a slow trail from head to base with curiosity.

Rick's cock matched the rest of him; long and slender, and Stan was a little embarrassed to admit it, but he'd been curious about the key difference between him and Rick since the first time he'd seen the other man emerge from the shower without a towel—the fact that Rick still had his foreskin. It was interesting, to say the least, the skin gliding with the stroke of Stan's hand, over Rick's cockhead and back down, each pass making Rick's hips twitch.

A softly mumbled "Fuck," from Rick made Stan look up, his stomach doing an unexpected somersault at the enraptured way Rick was watching Stan's hand, blood-smeared mouth hanging open slightly.

"Jesus, you're so hot." The words tumbled from Stan's lips before he'd even thought about stopping them, his neck and cheeks immediately increasing their flush when it brought Rick's gaze up to his face.

He hid his embarrassment with a hurried kiss, though the fact that he had to push up on his toes slightly to reach Rick's mouth didn't help, nor did the little snorted laugh Rick pressed against his lips.

"About fuckin’ time you noticed," Rick murmured smartly, gripping Stan’s wrist a little tighter, guiding the stroke of his hand over his shaft to a pace he clearly liked. Then he was pulling Stan closer again by the arm he had hooked around his shoulders, head tilting back against the rough brick behind him; leaving his slender throat far too temptingly open for the press of Stan’s teeth.

“Mother_fucker,”_ Rick hissed, followed by a suppressed cry, his cock twitching in Stan’s hand as Stan laid a trail of soft bites down his neck before licking his pulse point with a low moan. “Christ, that’s it.”

The more Stan touched, the more responsive Rick became, spreading his booted feet and sliding several inches down the wall with a harsh moan, each noise and squeeze of his hands around Stan’s wrist and shoulders spurring Stan on. God, it was so easy to slot them together; Stan’s knee between Rick’s spread legs, his free hand braced against the wall beside Rick’s ribcage, his mouth still working Rick’s throat. It was hot and sweaty and _crazy_; Stan’s still undone pants falling down to his ankles, Rick’s hand releasing his wrist to roughly shove up the hem of his shirt, grunting with satisfaction when he encountered Stan’s hairy skin.

Still Stan managed to work his hand between them, a steady, tacky stream of precum leaking from Rick’s dick messily, the hitch of his hips against Stan’s hand and belly almost frantic now.

“Yes, _fuck!_ Yes, god, like that—” Rick babbled, the mix of Stan’s hand concentrating on the head of his cock and the press of Stan’s teeth on the underside of Rick’s jaw finally enough; his climax spurting against Stan’s abdomen and his moans entirely too goddamn noisey for their semi-public affair.

A kiss was thankfully enough to quiet him, the loud moans shifting to whimpers as Stan worked him to the point of oversensitivity, Rick squirming and fumbling for his wrist to roughly pull his hand away.

Then quiet, just the sound of their panting and the faint noise of street traffic from the neighboring roads, and Stan was back to being paralyzed with fear, his forehead pressed against Rick’s shoulder and his messy hand smearing wetly on the brick behind Rick’s back. He didn’t move until Rick moved, the taller man thumping him aimiably on the side before straightening up, unquestionably his cue for Stan to step back out of his space.

Christ, he couldn't even look Rick in the eye; his head down, shoulders hunched as he hurriedly looked around for some way to clean himself up.

"Here." Rick's tank shirt hit his shoulder, and despite the nugget of weird guilt he felt at using his friend's shirt as a cum rag, he took it anyway, wiping off his hand and abdomen. He grimaced as he looked at his dick, where Rick’s drying spit and blood felt decidedly tacky and unpleasant. Truly getting clean would have to wait until he could access some soap and water, but for now he simply gave his junk a cursory wipe before awkwardly handing Rick’s shirt back and quickly straightening his clothes.

The click of a lighter finally brought his gaze back to Rick, who was leaning against the wall with a cigarette between his lips, legs crossed at the ankle as he took a long drag in. He looked like the epitome of relaxed, despite the blood still smeared around his mouth and the not-entirely-subtle bruises beginning to form along his throat; his eyes were half-lidded, and he seemed completely unphased by the semen and blood-stained shirt hanging out of his back pocket.

"Not to jump a gift shark in the mouth," Rick said on the exhale, smoke curling through the air in front of him, "but what the fuck was Snakebite about if you were into this?"

Stan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose before rubbing his eyes, feeling awkward and ashamed in every inch of his body. "Oh Christ, Rick, I didn't _know_ I was into this."

"No shit?" Rick laughed, way too amused at Stan's expense. "Aw, you fresh little gay baby."

"I'm not gay," Stan insisted as he dropped his hand back to his side.

"Bisexual baby, then." Rick waved his hand dismissively. "But that's it? That's the only reason you've been weird?"

_Only._ He made it sound so simple and straightforward.

"What about you?" Stan decided to ask instead, struggling and failing to keep the accusation out of his voice. "You've been pissed at me since you came to get me in the parking lot after..." He waved his hand vaguely.

"I wasn't _pissed_ at you, Pines."

"Yes you were! Are! Whatever! Hate to tell ya, Sanchez, but you ain't exactly good at hiding it when you're ticked off."

"Alright, _fine_, I was ticked, but it wasn't because you were watching, moron. It's because you looked at me like I'd turned into a fucking ghoul." The downturn to Rick's mouth was bitter, and he looked away as he flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette.

Stan shoved his hands in his pockets, discomfort twisting in his gut. It didn't take Rick's genius IQ to guess that someone had thought exactly that about Rick in the past, and the idea that Stan now did too had upset him.

Stan kicked at a random bit of trash by his feet; he'd been so sure Rick had had him all figured out—discovering that the two of them had been completely ass-backwards and needlessly taking it out on each other made him feel equal parts ashamed and embarrassed.

"Yeah, well. I don't think that."

Rick snorted, fishing in his pocket for another cigarette. "Obviously. Can't imagine I'd have your cum all over me if you did."

Heat raced up to Stan's face in a humiliating flush, and he growled in aggravation at Rick’s crude remark. He was saved from any more of them a moment later when the bar’s back door opened.

“Damn, what the hell happened to you squanchers?”

Birdperson and Squanchy both peered out the door at them, and Stan’s insides twisted as he looked at Rick, silently begging him not to divulge what had transpired between them. It was still too raw, this new part of himself, this new experience with Rick—he needed time for this to be their little secret.

Thankfully, Rick seemed to be on the same wavelength, finally lighting his second cigarette as he nodded at his bandmates. “Nothin’. We hashed it out, we’re all good now.”

Stan simply nodded in agreement, meeting Birdperson’s inquiring look as evenly as he could.

“I am very pleased to hear it,” Birdperson acknowledged after a moment, giving an answering nod. “I would appreciate it if you would return to finish our soundcheck if all is well?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we’ll be in in a moment, Birdperson.”

Another round of acknowledging nods, and Birdperson withdrew, leaving Squanchy to eye them a moment longer, followed by a shrug. “Sounds squanchy to me.”

The door closed, and Stan felt Rick nudge his arm with his elbow.

“Here.” He offered his cigarette. “Looks like you need it.”

Stan took it from his fingers, hyper aware of the brush of their skin like he had never been for all the other dozen times Rick had passed him a cigarette or joint. But before he could bring it to his lips, Rick was ducking down to press his mouth there instead, his hand cupping Stan’s head.

“Glad you don’t secretly want to bash my head in or some shit,” he mumbled.

Somehow, despite the way surprise had jolted through his system at the intimate action, Stan found his voice, and more impressive still, he managed to make it a quip. “Never said I don’t wanna bash your head in. It just won’t ever be for that.”

Thankfully, Rick laughed, fingers pinching a lock of Stan’s hair to give it a little tug. “Ditto.”

A flirty smirk and a wink and he let go, disappearing back into the bar without looking back.

Stan finished the cigarette Rick had given him, staring out into the dim alley, the sound of The Flesh Curtains completing their soundcheck leaking through the door.

He could lie to himself about what had just happened; say it was a freak lapse in judgement, or just the one-time result of pent up anger and frustration between two friends who didn’t really want to hurt each other with fists and kicks. He could say it didn’t mean anything, he could say that it was never going to happen again. He could lie to himself and he could lie to his friends, but when it came to Rick… lying was always going to be a hell of a lot harder.

**Author's Note:**

> I love these idiots. [Follow me on tumblr to see how much.](https://guilty-pleasures-abound.tumblr.com)


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